Dusty Old Books
by Randomcat1832
Summary: He was a lonely little boy with a wild imagination and knack for trouble. He would skip classes to read books that he'd stolen from the library while trying to avoid a vicious bully. But even with all this going on in his life, he still dreamed of the stars. And he knew that one day he would travel to visit them.
1. Red Fields and Questions Unanswered

**Dusty Old Books**

**.**  
by Randomcat100

Author's Note: This is my very first story for _Doctor Who_, which is essentially my favorite television show of all time. Before I start, I want to have one thing cleared up before I start any scandals. This story does not account for anything from the classic series, as so far I have only seen "NuWho", as it's often called. Meaning that a good deal of it will be based off of headcanons. I have done some reading on the old series so a few details will be taken from it, but again, mostly knowledge from the new series and headcanons. I hope you can enjoy it anyway. Thank you. Also, please note that this chapter is written from an angle to give a sense of time passing as opposed to focus on certain events. The rest of them will, most likely, be different.

Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, or any of its characters. I'm sure the people who do, though, are clearly monsters who feed off the tears of its viewers and fans.

* * *

Chapter One: Red Fields and Questions Unanswered

* * *

Even as a little boy, he would do quite a lot of running. Not so much for fun as opposed to out of necessity, though to be fair, he really did get a thrill out of it anyhow. Sprinting through the tall grass, over hills and down scraggly paths. Tripping over his robes, his hearts pounding wildly, a grin that could be described as oddly _manic_ and strangely _delighted_ spread across his small face.

And he was small enough to know where to hide. Small from childhood and smaller still for his age, he knew to fit into tight caves, or which trees he could climb when he was hiding. He would do a lot of hiding too.

He really should stop loitering in that field behind Koschei's house, because Torvic always found him there. But it had the best view of the stars, and from there he could spend hours staring up at them. He would try to count those stars all the time, but there were far too many for his five-year-old mind to be able to register properly. Sometimes Koschei would come find him, and they would play there together, even though Koschei didn't seem to care about the stars.

Mostly, though, the boy would remain alone. None of the other children seemed to care about the great thick books he'd find, or how far away such and such star was. What surprised him most was how little everyone else cared about the humans. Perhaps he was so fascinated with them because of his mother, but then, Father didn't seem to care either. The boy was too young to understand his father's withdrawal from the human race after all the hurt and scandal, being only a little over five. He was clever, there was no denying that, but he was also just a child.

Everywhere, there exist lonely little children. He was one of them. Not unhappy, perhaps, but lonely.

Right now, though, at this very moment, there was only one threat in his life and it was all he focused on.

Torvic.

He was running right now, as he so often did, hoping not to get beaten. He was quick on his feet, but Torvic was fast too, and chasing him with a vengeance. The worst part was knowing _why_ the bully hated and targeted him so much. It was because of his mother. The boy was something of a scandal on Gallifrey. Son of a former member of the High Council and a human woman from the 19th century, in Earth years. Despite the fact that his DNA had been toyed and tampered with to make him fully Time Lord, he was still considered a half-breed.

The boy stopped at the foot of a tree, at the top of one of the orange hills. He could see the buildings from up there, all sparkling and glamour under the sun. And it would be a very good place to hide from Torvic, who was still a little behind. He climbed quickly and easily, and managed to remain half-hidden by the branches. From his perch, the boy could see everything. Not just the endless expanse of Gallifrey, but on the other side, behind him, Torvic ran directly by.

The boy smiled softly. Just to himself. He hopped down from the branches and darted off in the opposite direction, towards home.

**::**

While waiting for Father to return home, he sat down on the floor in the center of the library and read. Not the silly little storybooks about Sontarans and Daleks. Those he liked to read when he was younger, two or three years old. Now the books the little Time Lord devoured would be about other planets and species (namely Earth, and humans). He knew all about them. Their similar but weak bone structure, their strange immune system and eating habits, their notable lack of organs, their funny sleeping patterns, and what struck him as strangest at the age of five: their brains. Small, and not even remotely transparent, unlike the translucent brains of his own people.

There weren't that many books on humans in the library, something he found extremely disappointing, for he had read each one more than twice already.

Bored now, the boy shut his book and put it on the shelf, flopping down to lie spread-eagled on the floor. He went on to do the things he usually did when he was bored. Count the tiles in the ceiling, even though he already knew how many there were (two hundred and sixty-one). He ran up and down the aisles of books, even though he wasn't supposed to do that. He picked a book at random and began to read through it. The book was boring, something having to do with some battle against the Ice Warriors or something.

It was the footsteps that made him look up. He was suddenly aware of Father, coming down the aisles. Quickly he put the book back in its spot, carefully, before running right around the shelf and throwing his arms around his father's waist.

"Father!"

He clung there for what might have been another minute before his father managed to shake him off. Chuckling, his father took the little boy by the hand and gently led him out of their library. The man's shoes made a deep sound that echoed throughout the vast room, while his bare feet slapped softly against the mahogany, one of the many, many materials that originated here on Gallifrey before the humans considered it their own, on Earth. He knew that from his books too.

They sat around the table, just outside the library, for their meal. Just the one meal, as Time Lords only needed to eat once a day. They ate more, but less often. Another thing he knew from his books.

"And what have _you_ been up to today, then, my little Doctor?"

The boy grinned; he loved it when Father called him that. About a year ago, he'd suddenly announced that when he went to the Academy and chose his title, he was going to call himself "the Doctor." He'd chosen the name because, he'd said, it was the "most goodest title of all." Nobody else referred to him by his future title, not even Koschei. Everybody called him by name, save Koschei, who called him Theta Sigma (or, more recently, simply "Theta"). How his friend had decided upon this, the boy would never know. It wasn't bad as far as nicknames went. But he liked his title – the Doctor – and even thought of himself by it.

"I went to the field," the little boy answered slowly. "And also the hill. I looked at the stars, they were starting to come out before I came home." Perhaps involuntarily, he turned his head upwards, as if he would be able to see them now, through the roof. That was what he liked about the night, he couldn't see the stars by day when the skies were clouded in oranges and reds. But at night, they would darken. Still hued the colors of flames, but dark enough to see all those stars, the endless expanse of glowing little infinities. He took a bite of his food, swallowed. "I'm gonna travel to the stars and other planets when I grow up, like you, Father."

Father chuckled. "Are you sure you want to do that, my little Doctor? It can be lonely, you know, when I'm traveling and I'm all alone."

The boy smiled. "That's just because you miss me. I won't be lonely. I'll take my friends."

"Which friends will you take?"

The little Doctor thought for a moment. Technically, Father didn't know just how few friends his son had, that being none. "Koschei," he decided after some thought. "I'll show him how pretty the stars probably are."

"A good choice," Father answered with a chuckle. "Your young friend is an arrogant boy, but he's nice enough."

The rest of their meal was carried out in silence, mostly. Sometimes Father would ask the little Doctor a question, which he would answer, and then the quiet would come back. He didn't like lying to Father about having friends. It wasn't that he even cared terribly much. He was _happy_ with his books and fields and stars. Sometimes Koschei. He found the other young Time Lords boring, and they didn't think much of him either. Mostly because of his mother. But Father seemed to care, so the little Doctor told him that Koschei was simply his best friend. That wasn't necessarily a lie. Because Koschei was the closest thing to a friend he had, and technically, he supposed, that _did_ make him his best friend.

After the meal, he read some more in his bedroom. A new book, one he found at the back of a shelf. It was dusty and old, but he liked the smell of it and it was intriguing besides. Not about humans, but close enough. It was about some other, more native species of Earth. He didn't know very much about those yet, possibly because he'd simply neglected to read such books. The big, thicker ones on humans were much more interesting to him, but as he'd already read each of those so many times, he wanted something new.

The book listed the animals in human's alphabetical order, and he was just past _capybara_ when Father entered his bedroom. "Book away," came Father's gentle order. "Sleep."

Irritated, the young boy shut his book and flopped back onto the pillows. "I don't see why I have to sleep five hours when you only sleep one. It's silly."

"Children have to sleep more than adults," Father sighed as he easily lifted his son up, pulled away the blankets, and returned the now pouting five-year-old to bed, forcefully tucking the blankets around his tiny body. "Especially those in their first body."

"How many bodies old are you?" the boy asked curiously, starting to settle down now, accepting his fate. "I mean, I know that you're four thousand years old, you told me that already. But how many bodies?" He started to sit up again, head cocked to the side.

Father gently pushed his little Doctor back down. "Sleep, I said. Though this is my third body, I've regenerated twice already. Now, that's a lot for someone my age." He smiled gently. "When you're four thousand years old, make sure you're still in this body."

The boy smiled. "Okay."

Father gave his little Doctor a quick kiss, then he closed the door and was gone. He shut the door behind him. The boy hated it when Father did that; it left the room so much darker and even though he denied it, even to his own self, the shadows would frighten him.

The high ceilings didn't help either. It felt like there were more shadows, or ghosts, coming for him, creeping across his ceiling to take him away, or – his pulse would quicken as he recalled the stories – a member of the Shakri?

The little Gallifreyan lay there. He could see all the shadows. On his walls, on the ceiling, the floor. Quickly, he shut his eyes, as if that would help. But behind those lids he could still see the moving shadows, sort of like he could every night. At a time he had asked Father not to close the door anymore, because it really did help when it was open. Father had chuckled, told him not be silly, and that if he really was that scared then he could always get up to open it. "I don't want to keep you awake," Father had explained. "And if I keep it open, you'll sneak off to the library, knowing you."

He would like to be in the library now, but he was too scared to get out of bed. The little Doctor was left to simply lie there, in bed, his eyes screwed shut because he was scared of the shadows. He might have been a clever child, and a brave child, but he was still just a five-year-old boy with scary shadows that danced on his walls, mocking him. The worst part was knowing that the shadows couldn't hurt him, not really. He knew they were only shadows. But he was scared anyhow.

Eventually, after perhaps half an hour, sleep took pity on him. She cradled him, gently, and his young mind relaxed in her embrace as he allowed her to take him.

**::**

Days weaved in and out, lazily, routinely, like they always did. Most of those days involved stars, and books, and Koschei, and running from Torvic. On one occasion he wasn't quick enough; he tripped over his robes (as they were a bit too big on him) and fell face-first.

Torvic got to him before he could even get up. The boy tried to get to his feet and run, but Torvic was bigger than he was, and twice as strong. The punches and blows came right after one another, to his lip, stomach, nose. There were kicks, each delivered with their own sharp and staccato burst of pain, sometimes drawing blood. The little Doctor tried to escape, but he couldn't of course. And once Torvic had had his fun, he ran off again.

The five-year-old tried to get up, but his leg was hurting and he could taste the blood in his mouth, sharp, sour. Metallic, almost. With the back of one hand, he wiped some of the blood away from his lip, which swelled with almost sour warmth.

Once he arrived home, he examined his injuries in a mirror. They weren't as bad as they felt. His lip was swollen and bleeding, and there was some bruising on his arms where Torvic had twisted them. He'd cut his knee open, somehow, and it was bleeding slightly, though not as much as his lip. The boy knew where the medical cabinets were. They were in the dining area, just a little higher than he could reach. Father wasn't home, of course. Unsure of what to do, he climbed carefully up onto a chair, and his little fingers just brushed against the cabinet's handle, which he whipped open. He could have conducted a medical scan on himself, only he wasn't sure how to operate the scanner yet, so he just knocked down a bit of gauze and a small vial of dressing for his cut knee, as he'd seen Father use before.

The little Doctor sat down on the floor, carefully applying the dressing to his knee. He didn't know where the cloth swabs were, but the edge of his robes worked just fine. Just as he was readying to bandage his knee and focus on his still-bleeding lip, he heard footsteps and looked up.

"Father!" he exclaimed, surprised.

His father took one look at his son, sitting there and rubbing healing solutions onto a cut knee, and instantly rushed to his side. "Oh, no," he sighed. "What happened this time?"

The boy looked away. "Nothing."

"That isn't nothing, and you know it's not. Something happened. I'll ask you to tell me again later." Father's voice was stern; he even addressed his son by his name this time, and under Father's gaze the boy shrank away slightly from guilt. He really did hate lying to Father. But Father didn't seem to be very angry with him as he gathered the little boy in his arms and tended to his lip. Usually, the boy fought when he was being looked after, but now it felt good, and before long he was carried off to bed.

Well. _That_, on the other hand, he refused to stand for.

"I'm not tired," the boy complained. "I'm not going to go to bed. Don't need to." His lower, and still swollen, lip went out in a classic pout.

"You should lie down," Father advised. "You don't have to sleep if you don't want to. I'll stay here with you." He sighed, waving vaguely at the air. "Now, why don't you read one of your books?"

"I've already read them all," the boy answered. "You just haven't got enough on humans and Earth."

**::**

Another year passed, and that was the worst beating the little Doctor took from Torvic. There were others, of course, but none of them were quite as bad. Mostly he managed to outrun him anyway. And over the year, he grew. Just not very much. He was now even smaller for his age than he had been before. Of course, Torvic grew too, and quite a bit more. It wasn't all bad, though. The little Doctor was still a fast runner.

He really did do a whole lot of running. Father said that when you traveled in a TARDIS, you had to run, sometimes, when visiting the other planets. It was good practice, he decided. He already knew that he was going to travel in a TARDIS to see the stars.

A few days ago, he'd gone wandering a little further, and found the place they parked the TARDISes. He walked up and down, looking at them, daydreaming about which one he would travel in once he left the Academy. Now it became another one of his dwellings, and there he might spend hours, just looking at them.

He'd tried to show Koschei this place, but his friend had been stubborn and went off in the other direction. So now the little Doctor, "Theta Sigma", was left to look at the TARDISes alone.

Father grew busier too, something which hugely aggravated the boy. He liked to show off to Father and tell him all about what he'd learned. There were still plenty of books for him to read yet at the library. He even found another book about humans, which was old and smelled bad, but he read it anyway, small fingers tracing the circles that made up his people's alphabet.

One night, they talked about his mother. He and Father. He often thought about her, his mother. His _human_ mother. But he'd never asked Father about her. He was too young to understand properly and hadn't really questioned his situation. Like where Mother actually was. But when he started to wonder about her, _really_ wonder, he went ahead and asked Father.

"I believe I've told you some things," Father said.

"Just some," he answered. "I want you to tell me more."

So Father told him. At first, the little Doctor felt very grown up, felt pleased for being treated like a mature adult, at last. Father told him everything, and the boy, rested his head peacefully against Father's shoulder, and listened.

Some things he already knew. He knew that his mother was a human woman from the 19th century by the human calendar, and that her name was Margaret. Yes, that he already knew. But Father told him more.

Father had been on Earth and had an affair with his mother, a young and pretty woman who was only twenty-one. When Father realized the woman was with child, he had somehow (and the little Doctor didn't really understand this part) managed to alter the child's DNA so that he would be fully Gallifreyan, not human. But he also learned his mother had died when he was born, and Father had taken the baby in his own TARDIS back to Gallifrey.

"Was she kind?" the boy asked when Father was done with his story.

"Very kind," Father answered seriously.

The boy smiled. "Do you have any things from Earth? Anything of Mother's? Or not hers? I want to see." He wriggled away from Father and looked at him, his brown eyes wild with a funny sort of hope. But not just hope. Burning curiosity, fascination, something that could be ceased, had not been truly found yet.

Father shook his head. "No. I never took anything with me."

The boy's shoulder sagged. "Oh. Okay. Well. I promise that when _I _travel up to the stars and visit Earth, _I'm_ going to bring things back. And show them to you."


	2. High Ceilings and Stolen Books

**Dusty Old Books**

Author's Note: Finally we get onto the full course of the story, and for me this is _very _exciting … I sometimes wonder what this says about me? I really need to learn to have a wider range of interests.

Disclaimer: If I owned _Doctor Who_ then episodes such as "The Lazarus Experiment" never would have existed. Honestly, I would have put a word in.

OFFICIAL ESTIMATED LENGTH: 7 — 9 chapters

**::**

* * *

Chapter Two: High Ceilings and Stolen Books

* * *

_Two years later._

The real problem was the robes. They were much too big, and it wasn't as though robes of the Academy could simply be cut or resized. The smallest size dwarfed him, the sleeves hanging over his wrists and the hem too long, so that when he walked, he would trip slightly. They were still causing him problems now, and the boy had a funny feeling things would go on in such a fashion for a while yet. He'd known he was the smallest, and youngest, Time Lord beginning at the Academy, but at the very least he'd hoped the robes would fit.

He was paying little attention to the robes now, though. He was much too shaken to think about anything else, his tortured young mind still reliving everything he had just seen. The final stages of the ceremony were taking place now, titles being chosen, but, like all the young Time Lords around him, he could hardly focus on anything.

Pain.

It consumed him, both physically and mentally. All the pain, everything he'd just seen. He couldn't be rid of it.

There weren't really words to explain the experience of looking into the Untempered Schism. Just … pain. Pain and fear. The boy hadn't been able to take it very long, and he'd run from it, run to a place where he thought he'd be safe. He wasn't. His mind was still haunted with things he couldn't even begin to understand. Monsters. Demons. And next to him, Koschei was going on about drums and he wouldn't stop babbling.

The boy leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and gulping deep breaths. He just had to rest his mind … once the Lord President (whose speech he was paying absolutely no attention to whatsoever) stopped talking, he'd be expected to go up on that platform and announce his title of choice, that of course being "the Doctor." But he wouldn't be able to get a word out in this state. About an hour ago, he'd been asked by a medic if he was all right, and he'd stammered and trembled until the medic nodded, patting his back, and told the boy he understood how it was.

"Don't you hear the drums, Theta?" Koschei breathed, not for the first time. His words were rushed and panicked. "Don't you hear them? The drums of war? Aren't they in your head?"

The little boy took a few more gulps of air before managing to stammer, "I … I … n-no. No d-drums." Speaking hurt; he could scarcely get the words out. He closed his mouth and fell silent. At least he'd managed to say _something_. And his head wasn't burning as much anymore.

Through the rest of the Lord President's speech, he stretched his head back to look at the ceiling. It was high here, much higher than that of the library back home. The tiles smaller, organized to create the most elaborate mosaics. Stories, prayers, written in Old High Gallifreyan. The tiny tiles seemed infinite, and these he did not count. He simply stared at the bizarre art that was this ceiling, tried to read what was written, though of course he couldn't. Old High Gallifreyan was far too obscure and different than the language the boy was used to. As he examined the seemingly endless expanse of tiles, mosaics, and prayers, he found that it eased his mind, if only a little. Stopped the burning, relaxed the pain and fear.

He was suddenly aware that the Lord President had stopped talking. Already, several newly initiated Time Lords stood in front of the stage, apparently already having taken on their titles. Instantly, he snapped his head up, tapping Koschei's shoulder, hoping his name hadn't been called. "Have … they c-called my n-name … yet?" He was still having some trouble getting words out. Koschei was mumbling something, still going on about the drums, and was unresponsive, leaving the boy to flop back in his seat.

More names were called, and more trembling young Time Lord children took their place, officially announcing the title that they'd been dreaming up for weeks. The boy waited, his attention only peaked twice. First, when Torvic was called. His bully took the stage with what was perhaps far too much confidence, and he announced his title simply and bluntly. "I am the Victor."

By now, the boy had worked out the children were being called by age, eldest to youngest. Meaning that he'd be called forth last, which was not necessarily a good thing, but perhaps it would give him a chance to properly regain his speech, at the very least. Koschei was called forth after Torvic – or, he supposed, the Victor.

"I am the Master," Koschei announced. His voice was loud, clear, powerful. Apparently the frantic whispers of the drums were gone and he sounded so _sure_ of himself. It was almost disconcerting.

More young Time Lords were called forth and officially initiated. The boy started to grow bored again, stretching back his head to look at the ceiling. He had already studied it, but this time, the small mosaic TARDIS flying past a mosaic Gallifrey caught his attention. _That's gonna be me someday_.

He was suddenly aware of his name being called and his hearts began to beat quite a lot faster, their rhythmic four-beat pulse quickening. Slowly, he rose from the seat and walked to the stage at the front of the hall – which to him was more of a stadium, really, but that was irrelevant – and nearly tripped over his robes twice. The eyes of each and every member of the High Council were on him, as well as those of every single young Time Lord his age.

The boy mounted the stage, becoming progressively aware of his pounding hearts, certain the entire hall could hear. And then he announced what he had been waiting to say for years, without stuttering. "I am the Doctor."

**::**

There were rooms about seventeen floors up, two young Time Lords to each. The boy – now the Doctor, he supposed – didn't know how they were being organized, because somehow he was rooming with Koschei. The Master. He might have been gladdened by the news if his friend wasn't back to muttering about the drums again. Now they sat in their rooms, and the Master's frantic whispers were the only sound. In attempt to block it out, the Doctor took his pillow and firmly pressed it over his head, leaving only his mouth uncovered as he was rather fond of breathing.

The room was beautiful, and had his head not started hurting again, the Doctor would have noticed. A window that went from the floor to the (disappointingly low) ceiling overlooked the red and gold fields beyond, and the walls were colored a soft orange. Both his bed and the Master's were four-posters, extra long and covered in blankets of the deepest blue. Brown drapes gave them a bit of privacy, but he was too exhausted to sit up and pull them around his bed. In the woodwork there were inscriptions in Old High Gallifreyan. A golden carpet woven from grasses of Gallifrey's highest mountains sat in the center of the room.

The Doctor turned his head and watched as the skies darkened before he turned to his friend. "Master? What _are_ those drums?"

Suddenly, the Master's head snapped over to look at the Doctor, his eyes wide. "The drums," he repeated with intensity. "The drums of war, don't you hear them? In your head? Aren't they there, Theta? Aren't they – The drums of war, the drums the drums the drums the drums the drums … "

His words broke into a loop as his eyes went wild and he began to punch his pillow, still saying those two words over and over with manic intensity. The Doctor was frightened by his friend's behavior. He shot to his feet and yanked the drapes around his bed as if to use them as a shield. He lay back down again, covering his ears with the pillow, closed his eyes, tried to sleep.

But the realm of sleep offered him far worse mental tortures than the mad ramblings of a friend. It had been hours since his initiation ceremony but the Untempered Schism had left a long-lasting imprint on his mind. The instant the little Time Lord closed his eyes, his mind burst with everything he'd seen, all the pain and fear consuming his tiny body to the point he could have screamed.

He writhed and twitched in sleep, subject to the world of the worst dreams he'd ever had. There were no words to describe them, just maddening fear. Countless nameless monsters all in his head, speaking to him, and digging their claws into his small body. There was hurt and pain, tears and screaming, and his head pounding and burning, flashes of Father sitting alone in the dark with his face streaked in tears –

In a sweat, his eyes snapped open. He was still shaking violently and it took him several minutes to recover. The Doctor lay there, panting, shutting his eyes briefly before opening them, too afraid of the dark to experience it even for another second. After a prolonged amount of silence, he drew aside the drapes. The Master had stopped whispering and was now asleep in bed.

How much time had passed? How long had he been asleep? The child scuttled over to the window, pressing small hands against the glass. Not long, apparently, for the Gallifreyan sky was not yet fully dark. He must have slept for under ten minutes. Meaning he had a full five hours ahead of him, which would be very dull if he just sat here. He was too afraid to go to sleep and though he was tired, he was too stubborn to admit it. So he got up again, gathered a blanket and pillow, and set up a sort of camp by the window. There he lay, gazing out at the stars which were only just starting to show. He could have spent the entire night there, but even the stars got boring as he quickly discovered what a poor view he had.

He needed to read something, but he had no books. Nothing, not a single thing, was allowed to be brought from home to the Academy, and visits with familial relations would be rare and infrequent. There was a great big library here, though. He knew that, and it was just six storeys down. Perhaps if he could go down and pick a book to read …

It would be stealing. He'd get in trouble for it. But, he pondered, it wasn't as if he wouldn't bring them back. He would return the books. Someday. When he finished reading them a few times.

Before he could change his mind he jumped to his feet and slipped silently out of the room. The floors creaked, and with every step the Doctor cringed, unsure of what punishments could be in store for him if he was caught. He knew that the teachers were all very strict, but he didn't know what they would do to him.

The stairs seemed an endless expanse as he stepped carefully down them, hoping not to trip on his oversized robes. Just where was the library, anyhow? He wasn't lost, was he? Because the Academy was immense and easy to get lost in, especially for a little boy at night. Soon, he managed to find what he thought was the correct floor, but even then it was little help as he wandered the labyrinth that made up these corridors. And there were shadows everywhere, creeping and crawling, coming to get him, and he was reminded of the monsters he'd seen when looking into the Untempered Schism, which sent an involuntary shudder down his spine.

Eventually he managed to figure out he was one floor above the library, so he located the nearest stairwell in the intention of going down before finding books on humans. The mere thought of finding more books excited him, and unfortunately, distracted him. On the stairs, he stepped on his own robes and went tumbling, all the way down, sharp little bursts of pain claiming him. He didn't make a sound though, didn't cry out. And when at last he'd tumbled down an entire flight of stairs, he lay there for several minutes before rising and pushing open the grand door to the library.

As it turned out, the library took up the entire floor, meaning finding the book he wanted might not be as easy as it would look. This floor was also filled with windows. Lighting wouldn't be a problem as the orangey skies of Gallifrey bled through. And a quick skim of the shelves proved that the books were completely disorganized. There was a fat book of prayers from Rydonia located next to a thick volume of traditional Gallifreyan children's stories, and next to that was an edition called _A Complete and Detailed History of Ancient Battles of the Gallifreyan Against Cybermen and Such Similar Species_. This the Doctor quickly shoved aside, thoroughly disinterested. He walked up and down the aisles. "Books on humans … humans … Earth … " he murmured to himself.

A monotone voice suddenly spoke. The Doctor spun, nearly tripping on his robes again, but saw no one. _Welcome, young Doctor. You have enacted the automatic voice-controlled interface data of the Academy's library. Please name the topic of book you seek and the lights will guide you._

The Doctor froze. "Sorry?" he asked softly. "What?"

_You have enacted a personalized voice interface to guide you in finding books of your selected topic, young Doctor. Please name the topic of book you seek and the lights will guide you, _came the voice.

It was a woman's voice, he now registered as much. Though it was so monotone it was difficult to tell. And now that the voice had spoken again, he was aware that it was playing inside of his head, somehow. He could sense that. "Er," he said. "Human?" Like a question.

_Scanning electric files …please wait and lights will guide you to the books of your choice momentarily._

Seconds ticked by, and a string of dimly glowing lights lit up on the floor. The Doctor, while slightly overwhelmed, followed them. He quickly discovered that they crisscrossed and wove together, going off in all different directions, most likely due to the complete disorganization of the library. Had he not been terrified of being caught the Doctor would have spent hours following the trails and tracking down every single book on humans in that library. But he had little time, so he selected the nearest three books according to the light trails. He also discovered that the lights ran all the way up the woodwork in the shelves, pointing him directly to the book he wanted.

About twenty minutes later, the young Time Lord had slipped out of the library and gone up the flights of stairs, his arms weighed down with the precious load of three very fat volumes having to do with humans. A few wrong turns and he found himself in the corridor corresponding to his room. Shouldering open the door to the room he now shared with the Master, (whose title was just damn pretentious, now that he thought about it), the Doctor plopped down onto the nest he'd created himself by the window, opened the book, and began to read by the light of a Gallifreyan sky.


	3. Names Unknown and Challenges Taken

**Dusty Old Books**

Author's Note: We are told very little about the Academy in the show, and from the research I've done, not much more even in the old series. Hence I will be taking several liberties, and I feel that I will be doing so especially in this chapter. Again, please excuse me and for those of you who have in fact watched the old series, please let me know if I have performed any horrible, unspeakable abuses to canon.

One final important note. I will be away on vacation much of the summer, meaning that I almost certainly won't be updating. While I will technically have access to a computer and Internet there's a chance I won't be using it at all. I will be back towards the end of August and there is little chance I will update between now (July 6) and then. Due to my confessed rush to update at least once before leaving this chapter is also shorter than usual, for which I also apologize. Please keep in mind that this story **will not have been abandoned**, and that **there is a slight, but low chance, I might be able to update once or twice**. Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing, and I hope you understand and will continue to read upon my return!

Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, then I would make sure that the Doctor was reunited with Amy and Rory. Just for one episode. Then, this _is_ being written before the release of Series 8, so if that happens … maybe I _do_ own Doctor Who. Cue mysterious grin.

**::**

* * *

Chapter Three: Names Unknown and Challenges Taken

* * *

The Doctor woke up. Which was strange because he couldn't actually remember falling asleep. Next he became aware of the thick book he was resting his head on. Sitting up, he rubbed at his eyes, bewildered. One glance out the window revealed it was morning. He must have fallen asleep. Groaning softly, the young Time Lord got to his feet and looked around the room. He could hear that Koschei – the Master, he reminded himself – was still sleeping. How long had he been asleep?

The little boy leaned against the glass, picking up his book again. He began to read, but when he heard the Master stirring, he stopped and looked up. "Koschei?" he asked softly. He knew that his friend would most likely not appreciate being referred to by name, not anymore. But he still remembered the mad little boy from last night, and needless to say, was more than a little frightened by him. "Koschei?" Remembering the fact that the books which now lay in a pile beside him were technically stolen, he quickly shoved them under his bed before approaching his roommate.

The Master had curled up into fetal position, but he didn't move until hesitantly, the Doctor reached out to shake his shoulder. Then his friend raised his head, eyes wide. "Doctor. Theta. It's morning."

"I know," the Doctor replied. He shifted on his feet uncomfortably. "So c'mon then, get up." When the Master only stared at him blankly, the young boy bit his lip and continued, "Are you okay? You weren't last night. You were talking about drums … I guess you heard them when you looked into the Untempered Schism … or something similar. The drums."

With sudden, nearly manic energy, the Master sat bolt upright. His hands reached out, grabbing his friend's robes tightly in his hands. Startled, the Doctor tried to step back, but being smaller and somewhat weaker, there was no escaping the Master's grasp. His friend held on for at least another full minute before letting go and falling back on the bed. "They're still there," he replied at last. "In my head. The drums of war."

"But what _are_ the drums of war?"

"They're the drums," came the offhanded retort. The Master smiled. "I know. Believe me, I know." He turned his back on the Doctor then, and did not move from his position. He was seated cross-legged, staring straight ahead with a completely neutral expression on his face as he remained silent.

Slowly the Doctor stepped back, quickly ducking back behind his bed. Reaching under it, he pulled out his book and resumed his reading. There, the small Time Lord remained hidden with his book, waiting for a potential morning roundup of all students. Last night there had been no mention of when to meet with his fellow students, or where they would all gather. Most likely the Lord President had explained all this in his long-winded speech, and the young boy now thoroughly regretted having not paid attention. All he could do was read and wait, hoping he would not end up spending the entire day reading only to be punished later on.

As it turned out, he needn't worry for much longer. A loud beeping suddenly began to sound, causing the Doctor look up in surprise and the Master to clap his hands tightly over his ears. The beeping went on for another full thirty seconds before an automated voice, not unlike that of the library's voice interface directed them to the corridor. _Well, that would be the roundup call._ Hastily, the Doctor shoved his book under the bed yet again – a hiding spot his eight-year-old mind found perfectly suitable – and poked his head out the door. Sure enough, a crowd of younger Time Lords were gathering in the corridors as a teacher tried to separate them into smaller groups. The older children seemed to know where they were meant to go and were already slipping past to attend whichever lesson they were due to next take part in.

Turning, the Doctor said to his friend, "We're supposed to be out there, you know. C'mon!" Without waiting for a response, he stepped out the door, leaving it open behind him and joining his fellow young students. As he made his way through the crowd, a hand suddenly had a firm grip on his shoulder, and the Doctor stopped in his tracks. The hand squeezed, twisted, until his eyes watered with the pain and he was released. He did not need to turn around to know it was Torvic. The Victor, he'd called himself. It was the kind of title only he would pick, the boy who was so certain of his own success and power he saw and knew little else.

In the past year, the beatings had gotten worse as his body failed to develop as quickly as those of his fellow young Time Lords. Aside from his size, his bone density was lower, making them much more fragile, as fragile as human bones. He was weaker, had a lower stamina than anyone else must have at the Academy, though from what he understood he was still considerably stronger than any human, but still weaker than any Gallifreyan. His DNA codes may have been altered considerably, but there was no ridding of his human half entirely, and incidentally his body decided to bring it out like this. The Doctor's weakness had started to show just recently, in the past year, and did not go unnoticed. To Torvic, a boy who enjoyed exploiting the Doctor as much as possible, it was an opportunity and advantage not to go unmissed.

One time, he'd been stupid and had tried to face the bully himself, tried to fight back. As a result he'd taken a beating far worse than the one he'd endured at age five. The "little Doctor" had limped home with one eye almost swollen shut, cuts all over his small body. a broken wrist and a bruised rib.

The Doctor walked past the Victor without looking back, massaging his shoulder. At some point he was hustled with a group of children and directed to stay there, apparently now part of their class. He caught sight of the Master amongst their numbers. Yesterday he would have been thrilled, but now the Doctor was unsure what to think. He cared for his friend – or the closest thing he had to one – but was now a little afraid of him.

It seemed ages until at last their head teacher escorted them through twisting corridors and down staircases to the point where the Doctor's head spun, but at last they were led into what must have been a spacious lecture hall, with long wooden tables and benches organized in rows. For the number of students in his class (that being twenty-six including him) the room seemed far too big. It was large enough to fit half of the Time Lords being initiated that year.

Their head teacher introduced himself as Borusa, or as they could alternately call him, the Guide. It was a good title for a teacher, the Doctor reflected, especially one who excelled at mind shielding, as Borusa apparently did. He went on to explain everything they would be learning in his class over the course of the year, until the next wave of young Time Lords were initiated and they'd all be moved up a level. He had them all recite the Oath of the Academy together. During the course of the speech, the Doctor quickly found himself growing bored, something he was wont to do when people talked about things he didn't care about for prolonged periods of time. To pass the time he looked around at his fellow classmates, how many of them he knew. Thankfully the Victor was not among their number. He'd only have to see him at meals and outside of classroom hours. There was, of course, the Master. Most of the other children he didn't know. He recognized a young Time Lady whose name had been Aleyah, who lived close by to his home. They'd never played together, but once he'd overheard her talking to her friends. She'd been giggling and joking about making her title "the Dalek." The Doctor hadn't been paying any attention to her official initiation but could only hope she hadn't chosen this title in the end.

There were others, none of which he knew by name. One girl he recognized as one of Aleyah's many friends, another, a boy who had often hung around Torvic.

" … and the young Doctor, please come to the front."

His name. Somebody was addressing him ... The Doctor looked up only to see the Guide staring at him expectantly. Hastily the small boy scrabbled to his feet. _Please come to the front._ He made his way up to the front of the immense classroom, where he saw the Master and another girl he didn't know the name of standing, matching bemused expressions on their faces.

"Are you ready to proceed?" Borusa demanded, and both the Master and the girl nodded. The Doctor, unable to really do anything else, nodded as well. From there, the three of them were ushered out through a back door and into a mostly empty room. The only thing inside was a small ship, silvery sleek but otherwise unremarkable. It was unmistakably a TARDIS. The Doctor had ventured out simply to look at them countless times. His hearts began to beat rapidly in excitement. Would he finally be able to fly one, as he'd dreamed? Never in all of his eight years had he imagined flying a TARDIS on his first day at the Academy.

As it turned out, he would be disappointed. He, the Master, and the girl (whose title, he learned, was the Echo, something he found very odd) were to simply go through a live TARDIS flying simulation. They would be permitted to enter the ship and fiddle with the buttons, but not to actually fly it. The ship was completely bound to the earth, but inside, they would be experiencing whatever they might as if they were really whizzing through space and the time vortex itself. While this seemed to be more than enough for the Master and the Echo, the young Doctor was unable to resist letting out a long huff of annoyance, which caught Borusa's attention and resulted in his teacher giving him _such_ a stern look, he squirmed in guilt.

From here, the three children were sent into the TARDIS. The Doctor looked around the ship, entranced. It was different inside than he imagined. Not bigger, really. He'd been fully aware of just how vast the ships were compared to their compact exteriors. But in his mind he had pictured the TARDISes to be full of more buttons, more knobs and dials, but in reality there were far fewer. Having said that, there were still quite a lot, so many that he didn't know how men like Father knew what they all did. The floor was made of glass and underneath he could see the jumbles of wires and plugs that were woven and tied up together in one great, tangled mess. It was rather like the inside of the rusty old robot he'd once found and taken apart.

The Echo broke the silence, ironically. "Where do we start?" she asked. "I don't actually know. I didn't study." A beat. "Sorry."

"Neither did I," the Master returned, for once not going on about the drums. It was a bit of a relief to see him properly interacting. Perhaps he was finally starting to recover from whatever he'd faced from looking into the Untempered Schism.

"Nor I," the Doctor put in. Had he known which books to read so that he _could_ study, then he certainly would have. Anything related to either traveling or humans or both was, of course, something of extreme interest to him. Other topics, not quite so much. Whatever bored him, even remotely, he had a habit of rejecting. He shrugged, leaning casually against the railing of the ramp leading up to the console. "But let's try something, yeah?"

Pushing himself forwards with ease, the Doctor approached the console, pulling at a lever. The entire console room shook, causing all three children to fall over and make a notably painful impact with the floor. "Okay," he said. "Perhaps we shouldn't have tried that. Yep, definitely not that."

The Echo huffed as she got to her feet and glowered at him. "Doctor, maybe the Master and I should fly the ship. Or pretend to, but you know what I mean. Not to be rude," she went on in a tone that could most certainly be described as _rude_, "but maybe you should leave this up to the Time Lords in the room."

"I am a Time Lord!" he defended himself.

"Mostly," she contradicted. She tugged at another lever, and when the TARDIS began to shake again, she quickly pushed another button. The shaking stopped. The Echo leaned into a screen, where there were images of stars whizzing by. She broke into a grin. "Ha! There, do you see? I can do it. We'd be flying through space now. Come on, Master. Help me over here, wouldn't you?"

The Doctor scowled, pushing her aside. "I can do it too. I only tried one lever. Let me."

"I've got it," the Echo retorted, a bit sharply.

But the thing about the Doctor was that he enjoyed showing off. He enjoyed being right. And he did _not_ enjoy being cast aside and expected to watch. Half human or not, he was just as capable as the Echo of flying this TARDIS. More so. And so he gave her another push. "No. Let me. I'll do it all on my own. I'll show you."


	4. Crashed Ships and Punishments Given

**Dusty Old Books**

Author's Note: A rare treat of an update. Honestly, I hardly expected to be able to write at all, so please enjoy! Chances are, I won't be able to again. This time it is more certain, as I wasn't aware of how things would be back home. So again, enjoy the chapter as it will be the last we'll be seeing of this story until this summer (summer 2014, for those of you reading this in the distant future) ends. And don't forget to leave a review on your way out!

Warning: The following chapter contains mentions of striking children, as well as some violence, and therefore reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: I don't own_ Doctor Who_, or any character associated with it. I don't even work for the BBC. If I did own _Doctor Who_ then Captain Jack would have made a return by now, and he would have met River Song too. Because face it, we all know this needs to happen sometime.

**::**

* * *

Chapter Four: Crashed Ships and Punishments Given

* * *

Circling the console, the Doctor took a long and proper look at each of the buttons and levers, as if he could determine what did what just by inspection. He was aware of the Echo and the Master both staring at him expectantly. He wished they wouldn't do that. It only added to the pressure. When he'd taken on this challenge he hadn't been counting on them judging him as they were. Hmph. It wasn't fair. They were just trying to make things difficult for him, he sulked. Or perhaps they did not trust him in flying this TARDIS. Just because he was half-human didn't mean he was incapable. Yes, it just wasn't fair, and it was here that he decided he didn't like the Echo.

But no matter what they thought now, he was starting to appear clueless. Even the Doctor admitted that to himself. He leaned into a monitor and pretended to type in some commands just out of their line of view. The monitor still revealed the stars and bits of rock floating about in space, and he supposed that the ship would still be flying reliably through space, if this weren't just a stupid simulation. He pretended to fiddle around with some controls for a while longer, not wanting to shatter the peaceful course the TARDIS would be taking. Of course, he couldn't go on playing make-believe forever. He reached for the nearest button on the console, which was large, round, and mauve. The Doctor's fingers idled for a moment in nervousness, as the smallest shred of logic and reason inside of him screamed its protest. He nearly gave in. Then he rebelled against the little voice of common sense, and pushed the button purposefully, slamming down hard enough to hurt his hand.

Instantly, alarms began blaring and inside, the ship rocked violently before starting to seemingly spin around and around. "What've you done?" wailed the Echo. Sparks flew from the wires, from the console. The monitor began to flash the word **_DANGER_** in bright red letters. Something fell from the ceiling and crashed, narrowly missing his head, and the Echo screamed. The Doctor tried to duck under the console, but more sparks were erupting under there and hurriedly he scrambled backwards just before a huge section of the place he'd just been hiding exploded. The Echo screamed again as the console room gave another violent shake. It seemed everything was reaching the climax in a crescendo of sparks, explosions, and wailing alarms. In the end, it was all finished with a violent _crash_ that send them all tumbling to the floor, and the room burst into flames in a shuddering finale.

At some point, some flying shrapnel from the exploded console had embedded itself into the Doctor's arm, he was surprised to find he was bleeding as he scrabbled across the floor to join the Echo, who was huddled by the doors, and the Master, who was seated next to her seemingly calm. "My arm is hurt," he announced after several seconds of quiet. "It's bleeding."

"You deserve it," the Echo answered hotly, just as the doors to the TARDIS opened from the outside. Behind them stood Borusa, and he looked positively livid.

The Doctor gulped. "Hello," he said levelly. "My arm is injured. Sorry about the TARDIS." A beat. "Very sorry."

Borusa was still very cross with the Doctor, incidentally, hurt arm or not. Which wasn't fair either, because it hadn't even been his fault and wasn't the injury to his arm punishment enough? It was bleeding heavily now, the green fabric of his robes soaked in a sticky, warm deep red. The Guide grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled the young Time Lord to his feet. He began to drag him along, and the young Doctor was too small to be able to fight. He allowed his heels to scuff against the ground as he was dragged off to an unknown, and surely miserable fate.

Meanwhile, the Echo stood, and was closely followed by the Master. hurried behind her teacher, unable to keep the triumphant smirk from her face. The Doctor deserved whatever he was about to get, after what he'd done. If they'd truly been in flight then surely, he would have killed the three of them. Obnoxious little half-breed. Things would have turned out better if he'd hung back and left the flying up to her and the Master. The Academy should never have admitted him in the first place! He wasn't like her, wasn't like the others. He was a weakling. No doubt he'd manage to get himself killed in some ridiculous, grandiose way in a fortnight. Aside from being disgusted by the fact that the Lord President would allow a half-breed into the Academy at all, the Echo knew the Doctor would wind up being nothing but a danger to himself. There were plenty of other half-breeds on Gallifrey who never attended the Academy and managed to make themselves useful in one way or another. She didn't see why the Doctor was any exception. It was just because his father was a member of the High Council, or had been once, before he'd flown off to Earth and decided to associate with humans.

She followed Borusa out the door of the back room and into the classroom, where her bemused classmates sat. She knew they'd all witnessed her humiliation at the hands of the stupid Doctor, and this made her hate him even more. Gritting her teeth together, the Echo avoided eye contact. She would have liked to return to her seat, but she was being beckoned to the front of the room, to the lectern. The Doctor was already standing there, his back to his classmates, clutching his arm. The Master joined him, and the Echo had no choice but to do the same. A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, a feeling of knowing what was to come next. It made her all the more furious. She didn't deserve this. It hadn't been her fault. It was _his_ fault. Her teacher produced something from the folds of his robes, and her fears were confirmed.

The Academy was known to be strict with its children. Everything was strict on Gallifrey. Not cruel, not like it was on planets such as Skaro or Me'daij, but strict. And punishments were common, even for the most banal crimes. The punishments were not necessarily harsh, but the extent of them depended on the crime. And while crashing a TARDIS was not a crime, crashing a TARDIS due to a blatant disobeying of given instructions _was_ considered one in the Academy.

So the Doctor, too, had expected Borusa to produce the leather strap. He gulped as the Master was instructed to place his hands upon the lectern and stand still as he was struck one, two, three, four, five times exactly. His friend did not whimper or cry, he simply stared blankly a head, and when his punishment was through, he drew his hands away and returned to his seat when ordered to. Borusa then repeated the process with the Echo, though she burst into tears the first time the strap came down upon her hands. None of the other children said a word, perhaps too afraid to do so. Perhaps they pitied the Master and the Echo. But the Doctor didn't expect them to pity him.

And they didn't. Snickers were heard when his turn came.

"Place your hands on the lectern, then, please, young Doctor. Now."

The Doctor obeyed, but his fear did not stop him from speaking up. "My arm, though ... " He wasn't sure why he was afraid at all, for he knew what was in store.

Borusa ignored him. He raised the strap. The Doctor closed his eyes tightly. The strap came down.

The pain started in his hands as a sharp burst of a sting, hurting more than he'd expected it to. It traveled quickly up his already injured arm like a course of electricity, causing the wound to burn and scream out. The Doctor had to bite his lip to keep himself from crying out. Before he could recover the next blow came, and the next, and the next, in rapid succession. He received ten strokes in all, twice as much as the Echo and the Master had. Finally, mercifully, he was sent off to the nearest med bay to have his arm tended to, and he went gratefully, hoping his reddened hands would be treated too.

As he went, all he could think of was how many times he would be struck if his stolen books were found out. Quite a few more times, he somehow suspected. Which was precisely why he would ensure that he _wasn't _found out. The Doctor was clever. He knew that. And he'd find a better hiding place than under his bed; that was just temporary. Tonight, when the Master was asleep and hopefully not talking about the drums of war, he would slip out and scour for a proper hiding place, one only he would know about.

The Master. Koschei. Now his thoughts wandered off to his friend. Former friend now, he supposed. Former semi - friend, actually. He was different. Changed. Something had happened to him when he'd looked into the Untempered Schism, something far more dreadful than what the Doctor had seen. The young Time Lord feared those "drums" in the Master's head were there to stay. But he quickly dismissed this thought for fear it would be confirmed. The drums would go away. They would. Koschei was just still shaken up, as the Doctor had been. That was all. He was sure of it.

Or so he told himself.

**::**

Little under half an hour later, the Doctor was exiting the med bay with a well - bandaged arm and a repaired sense of comfort. One of the Healers had sent him back to his class, but he did not want to go. Not yet. Instead he wandered the endless corridors until at last he came across one of the doors leading outside, where the Academy was located right in the middle of an immense field. Pushing the doors open, he drew in a deep breath before stepping out. His feet touched the red grass, and at once he felt more at home. The Doctor took several strides until he was about fifty yards away from the doors. Here he plonked down to rest for a bit, enjoying the view of the sparkling buildings of his city, Arcadia, off in the distance.

He did not stay for more than a short while. He knew that Borusa would notice if he was gone for too long, but if he used his time wisely then perhaps his teacher would assume that he had simply spent some more time in the med bay. No suspicions would arise and he wouldn't be in trouble. But after a short period of time, the Doctor rose, if somewhat reluctantly, and returned to his classroom. It took some more wandering to find, but he came across it eventually. Borusa looked up at him when he entered but did not falter

He did not pay attention during Borusa's lecture on historical battles with the Slitheens, too lost in his own thoughts to care. One day, he would, but for now, his young mind was lazy and consumed with fantasies of Earth and humans and all those strange customs of theirs that fascinated him so. He fantasized about taking a TARDIS down — he would be sure not to press the mauve button next time — and visiting Earth, meeting real humans. He imagined going back to see his mother, just a brief glimpse of her. He imagined making human friends and inviting them to travel with him in the TARDIS he'd have, and they would go with him and they would all become very close. He imagined showing them his home and they would be impressed, overwhelmed by its glamor.

It was going to be fantastic.

**::**

Weeks passed. The Doctor found a place to hide his books - or, more accurately, created one. Fumbling around with the floorboards, he eventually managed to pry one loose and shove his tomes inside of it, before replacing the wood panel in such a position that he would easily be able to re-open it without being discovered. The Master had watched him do this, but thankfully, never reported it. He said nothing, apparently not even showing signs of surprise as he observed his friend.

And so the Doctor was never caught. Nor was he ever punished for anything else, despite the rules he frequently broke. On more occasions than one, he would decided to skip a class, though always doing so with a different teacher than Borusa, and retire to his chambers to read his forbidden books. The other teachers, whom he was assigned to on his second day, were all younger than his head teacher. They, too, were strict and rigid, but the Doctor quickly observed they were much more stupid and gullible. Some, the Doctor was well aware he was cleverer then, despite being only eight years old. That wasn't too say he was not quickly labeled as "troublesome." But it was easier to break rules in their classes. Simple. Shooting fish in a barrel, which was apparently a common human expression, as he learned in his books.

But unfortunately, his life was far from a personalized paradise as long as Torvic — the Victor, which the bully never failed to remind everyone was a very clever anagram of his name — played a role in it. Just because the Victor was not in his class didn't mean that the Doctor was free of him at daily meals and during free hours. And Torvic, who also still liked to be called by name, never failed to plague the smaller, weaker Time Lord given any opportunity. To make matters worse, it seemed that every young Time Lord in his year had heard of his incident with the TARDIS. This resulted in many scenarios involving the Doctor running through the Academy's corridors, hiding in all sorts of places, but more commonly now, being punched. Already he'd been sent to the med bay twice at the hands of Torvic and his newly formed gang, once arriving in Borusa's class with a limp from a twisted ankle, and a badly bleeding lip. He never ratted the bully out, never reported him. That he'd already tried when he was younger, and it had only resulted in the bully hating him all the more. So when he was asked just what _happened_, the Doctor came up with elaborate stories and excuses as he dragged himself over to the med bay, fanciful reasons for his battered state that never got him into trouble.

As time wore on, the Doctor began to tire of beatings at the hands of Torvic. He tired of having to come up with new stories for showing up at the med bay. By the third time he was sent there, the Healers there knew him well and did not seem surprised by his arrival. "Back again, young Doctor? Right then, what is it this time?"

But that was okay. Because he was devising a plan, and a very clever one too, if he did say so himself. He didn't think it would completely stop the bully, but he was sure that if things went right, Torvic would at least feel a little intimidated by him. Leave him alone for a little bit.

And after a fourth (and hopefully final) visit to the med bay, the plan was ready to be put in action.

**::**

It was supposed to be mealtime. The tens of thousands of young Time Lords at the Academy, all of them aged between eight and forty, were gathered in the meal hall, a grand building just off to side of the Academy. But the Doctor was not amongst their numbers. After coming up with some story saying he wasn't hungry (which he was, actually, but if things went well he would be able to go down later, claim his hunger had worked its way to life and eat whatever was left) he was hunting the corridors for Torvic's room. He was _sure_ he'd known where it was yesterday when he'd gone looking for it, following Torvic from the daily meal. After what was more time than he would have liked, however, he did discover it, apparently just a few doors down from his own chambers.

He pushed open the door hesitantly, suddenly aware of how violently his hands were trembling, the shakiness of his breath. He thought that perhaps he might vomit. He never recalled being this afraid in his life. Quickly the boy stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, barricading it with a chair. He surveyed the room, taking it in by degrees, only to discover it was identical to his own. The only difference was the dagger on the floor next to what must have been Torvic's bed. His bully had a roommate, of course, but it was a timid boy, the Dreamer, who mostly stayed out of the Victor's way. The Dreamer would not keep a dagger next to his bed. Torvic would.

From the folds of his robes, the Doctor produced his weapon. It was contained within a vial he'd sweetly asked to borrow from the med bay during his last visit. The contents were a special solution he'd mixed himself in class, a thick milky white. While he had forgotten the name of the potion, he remembered its purpose. It was like the most powerful kind of glue, able to react with anything, and whatever touched it would stick instantly and would be damn near impossible to detach. It would require special technology that Torvic surely wouldn't have access to. And now the Doctor was about to pour the contents onto Torvic's bed.

With still-trembling fingers, the Doctor uncapped the vial, dropping its lid to the floor. Carefully, he approached the bed and began to pour the potion over the neatly folded blankets in well-measured lines. Just a dab here and there, but enough to cause unfortunate results for Torvic.

What he had not suspected was the corner of the sleeve of his robes touching the already-poured poison. What he had not suspected was getting stuck and spilling the vial's contents all over the floor. The Doctor cursed and tugged. Nothing.

His hearts started to beat faster. Oh, no. Not now, not this. He whimpered out as he continued to pull. Then it dawned on him. The dagger. He would be able to cut himself free if he just sliced off that little corner of his robe's sleeve. From there he'd run from the scene and pray he wasn't caught.

Rolling over, the Doctor stretched. Unfortunately, as his arm was restrained to his one spot without breaking it, he couldn't reach. His fingers brushed against the floor if he twisted, but they would not reach the dagger on the floor. Not willing to give up, he went on pulling hard.

The door opened. The Doctor looked up. Torvic stood there, several of his friends hanging just behind him.

Torvic assessed the situation.

He smirked.

The Doctor stretched even further in his desperation 'til his eyes watered.

Torvic took hold of the dagger. He raised it. The Doctor was ready to start crying, he was so terrified.

Torvic sliced the Doctor's sleeve, freeing him.

The Doctor attempted to bolt, diving onto the floor and scrambling to his feet, rushing to the door. But before he could reach it, he felt arms wrap around his waist and tug him down, strong arms he could not escape despite his wild, terrified struggles. He felt a hand take hold of his dusty brown hair and pull him back up. Still, he writhed, until whoever was holding him by the hair from behind drove his head hard into the wall and let go.

The pain was so shocking the little Time Lord simply crumpled to the floor. He felt dizzy, the room around him spinning and whiteness dotting his vision. The next blow came to his stomach. Torvic's feet, kicking him hard. And he would have tried to run, but being driven into the wall like that left him seemingly unable to rise, too dizzy to do so.

And thus began the kicking, over and over, not just from Torvic now but from his friends too. They kicked everywhere, and they were enjoying it, and he was taken over by staccato bursts of pain all over his little body. They kicked his stomach, his chest, they stomped down on his hands. At one point he was sure he felt a rib crack. A few times, one of Torvic's friends took a hold of his hair again and slammed his head into the wall a few more times, and his whole body was screaming out in pain. It choked him, strangled him, consumed him, and it was so fierce and so frequent that he could not even scream, just moan softly as the blows came again and again, and through it all he could hear shouts and laughs and he didn't know how they even knew he was in Torvic's room in the first place and he couldn't bring himself to care as he huddled against the wall, accepting every kick and punch in silence for he was too weak to even try to run and he wished it would all just stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop ...

It all ended in white-hot pain as someone — Torvic? — took hold of the dagger and drove it into his leg. And blackness descended, merciful.


	5. Starry Nights and Constant Lies

**Dusty Old Books**

Author's Note: This story has been such fun to write, but I never intended it to be very long. I'm afraid this, chapter five, marks the penultimate chapter of _Dusty Old Books_. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. There will still be more Doctor Who stories coming from me soon, however, so stay tuned.

Disclaimer: I don't own _Doctor Who_. If I did then wouldn't I have known about the show well before Christmas? Seeing as it's been around for fifty years? And the new series has been around since 2005? Unless I just bought the BBC, I _could not possibly_ own Doctor Who. Which I didn't, because I am not anywhere near that rich. So yes, I'm afraid I don't own_ Doctor Who_.

* * *

Chapter Five: Starry Nights and Constant Lies

* * *

Light.

That's what he first saw when he cracked his eyes open.

Bright white light. _Blindingly, _brilliantly bright, and he shut his eyes again.

Next he registered pain. A slight throbbing in his head, sores all over his body, but mostly a sharp, searing pain in one leg, and the previous events came back to him in a choking rush. He remembered it all the way up to being stabbed in the leg, and wondered what had happened next, after he'd blacked out.

Seconds ticked by before he summed up the courage to open them again, squinting against the light.

He registered the room by degrees: the bed he was lying in, its too-soft mattress supported by a flimsy wooden frame. The gauze wrapped round his leg. The floor, a sterile, hospital white. The ceiling no higher than that of his own room at the Academy, covered in writings in Gallifreyan. The light catching on the gold paint of the Gallifreyan characters and casting off a gentle illusion of reflection. The walls, that same shade of white blankness. He realized he must be in the med bay, though he'd really gathered subconsciously this before. The Doctor groaned.

Someone must have heard him, because a young Healer suddenly appeared at his side. She was young, no older than two hundred, with her dark hair held tightly back under her headdress. She studied him a moment, then said, "Young Doctor, you're awake."

"Really? I never would've guessed," he muttered, but the Healer didn't seem to like that. She scowled.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" she asked in a cool tone. "You were found unconscious by your Head Teacher in the corridor, with a broken rib, a stabbed leg, and minor head trauma. That certainly could not be the cause of the little accidents you so often find yourself here for. Something happened to you. You must tell us what."

_Head trauma_. It was a perfect excuse, practically ready-made for him. "I ... " the Doctor made a show of thinking hard. He frowned and creased his brow. "I ... I don't remember ... I don't know." He waited with bated breath, hoping she wouldn't press further. Nobody needed to know about Torvic.

To his relief, the Healer nodded understandingly. "Well, I'm not surprised, young Doctor. You'd been hit on the head many times, and by the looks of it, hard. Enough to rattle someone's brains if they _weren't_ a half-breed." She seemed oblivious to the Doctor's eyes flashing at the term _half-breed_, something no grown-up had ever called him before. "I expect there is little we can do about that, then. So long as you alert someone if you _do _remember. It's morning now; you were out all night. We'll keep you 'til dinner."

She kept on talking to him after that, about his injuries and how his leg might hurt for the next several days and how his ribs would still be a bit sore. He wasn't listening. The Doctor didn't like this Healer, and didn't consider her worthy of properly listening to. He was bored and tired and his leg hurt. He didn't _like_ her. She was no better than his schoolmates, who mocked him and thought him weaker just because of his mother's being human. She'd called him a half-breed. And besides, she wasn't very clever. _Your leg might hurt ... in fact, it might be hurting right now but it's nothing to worry about .._. Well, really? He never would have thought that.

Eventually, she seemed to sense he wasn't listening and she left him alone. Left him to daydream and lose himself to his own thoughts, in the mental realm he liked so much.

**::**

As unpleasant as the Doctor had mentally branded the young Healer who had clearly been personally assigned to him, she remained true to her word and let him go right around the hour the daily meal would be taking place. As if he didn't know already, she directed him to the meal hall from the med bay, and after a thankful change of robes, he was free. These robes were of course just as over-sized as the ones before them had been, but at least these ones weren't torn and sticky with his own blood. The Doctor paused outside the med bay door to tug the long sleeves above his wrists — and in return of course, they slid stubbornly back again — before heading off down a corridor in the exact opposite direction of the meal hall. He still carried no intention of dining with all his schoolmates, including Torvic, who would certainly not let out an exclamation of joy at the Doctor's recovery. And besides, that Healer had claimed he'd been found and carried, unconscious, to the med bay in Borusa's arms. Surely many other students of the Academy had seen him and, knowing them, they wouldn't pass up on another opportunity to mock him. Being carried through the corridors by the Head Teacher was most definitely an opportunity they wouldn't fail to take.

Instead, he took a longer route up some stairs to his own chambers, despite the injury to his leg that made him limp slightly. It was all right; the wound would heal and the limp would be lost in a few days' time. He still had a perfectly strong Time Lord's immune system to trust. He pushed open the door to the room he shared with the Master to find it empty, both beds unmade in the way all boys left their beds. It was probably the same on every planet, though none of his books offered any such information one way or another.

The Doctor gathered his books from their secret place — he hadn't finished reading any of them yet — and, after selecting one and tucking it under his robes, he slipped from the room again, silently shutting the door behind him.

He headed out to the fields. There, things were peaceful. He liked the fields. There was something in the gentle quiet and the feel of the grass beneath his small body that relaxed him. The Doctor sat back, folding the extra fabric of his robes underneath his injured leg for a cushion. Under the fading reds of the sky, he read for what might have been ten minutes or ten hours. He didn't know, being too caught up in his reading. He devoured the huge tome until he'd read to the very last page, but, not wanting to spoil the atmosphere to get up and fetch another book, he backtracked and read his favorite chapters. When at last the young Time Lord's eyes grew heavy and he was too tired to read any more, he lay down on his back in the grass and watched the stars.

His book on humans had shown him a map of the constellations as the humans saw them from Earth, and what they were all called. On Gallifrey, many constellations could be seen that the humans didn't even know about. The only difference was that from Gallifrey, one could see the star constellation the humans called "the Big Dipper." The Doctor was fascinated by the humans, but he couldn't help but think that the "Big Dipper" was a ridiculous name. Just because it looked something like a soup spoon! Yes, humans were very strange creatures. Sometimes the silly apes could be a bit stupid. Stupid apes. Really, the Doctor just didn't understand them.

But now was not a time to scoff at human stupidity. Rather, it was a rare moment for him to enjoy the freedom he'd had before the Academy, and for the eight-year-old Time Lord to rest peacefully. To dream of the life he promised himself he'd have one day, the life where he would get his very own TARDIS, make some human friends, and they'd fly amongst the stars together.

He knew that, one day, he'd have that life — they'd have that life, he and his friends.

It was an uncertain promise, as distant and bright as the stars above him.

But he could still see it.

**::**

The Doctor hadn't known that the next day would be a Visitation Day, the day when family members were permitted to see their children. He discovered this quite by accident when he woke up early in the morning in the red field and was traipsing back to his room after having returned his book to the library. Some older students were discussing it there ** — **once you completed the first Chapter, you were granted many more privileges as a student of the Academy, and the freedom to visit places like the library at night was one of them — and the young Doctor approached them.

"What did you say?" he asked eagerly.

The taller of the two students, a girl of about twelve, looked him up and down. She looked as if she didn't want to answer him (no doubt recognizing him as the infamous half-breed who'd crashed a TARDIS simulation the first day), but after some hesitation, she replied: "I said, it's Visitation Day today. First of the year."

"Is it Visitation Day for everyone?"

The girl scoffed. "'Course."

A broad grin broke out on the Doctor's small face, one which hurt his swollen lip. He spun on his heel, tripped on the corner of his robes, picked himself up, and took off towards his chambers several floors above. The girl, astonished, was left to stare after him. He tripped another time or two, but for once, he didn't care. Today was Visitation Day. How could he have missed such wonderful news? Most likely, he considered, this had been announced during one of the speeches made at the daily meals. The Doctor had quickly discovered just how _boring_ the speeches were and tuned them out, much more interested in his food but nodding and laughing and applauding politely when everyone around him seemed to be doing so.

In his glee, the Doctor had forgotten about the Master's drums. He had been planning on pushing the door open and waltzing in, but it was locked. He knocked out a little rhythm on the door of his room. When it did not open, he called softly, "Master?" No answer. "Koschei?" he tried.

Nothing.

Grumbling, the Doctor began to knock louder, tapping out a four-beat rhythm. The door opened so quickly that the young Time Lord took a step back, and the sight of his friend only startled him more. The Master's eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, his dark hair was mussed, and in their blue depths was a sort of wild madness the Doctor had never seen in them before, not even as he remembered about the drums. "Koschei?"

When the Doctor moved for the door, his friend shoved his back roughly in a manner his wounded leg did not appreciate. Falling silent, the Doctor waited. The Master was still staring. At last, a smile spread on his lips, one which was cruel and cold. "Well, what do you know, _Doctor_? You know about my drums. You can _hear my drums_."

"But I don't. I was just … knocking … Master, let me in, wouldn't you?"

The Master continued to stare. At last, that terrible smile disappeared, replaced by a look of blankness. "The drums," he said quietly. "They're waiting for you." And he stepped aside. The Doctor entered the room, saying nothing. He didn't mention Visitation Day.

**::**

He and his fellow young Time Lords were gathered and sent to the same hall used for meals. It was here the meetings for Visitation Day would take place. All the children in their first year, the eight-year-olds and the rare nine-year-old, were talking excitedly as they gathered in clusters, thrilling at the thought of seeing parents and younger siblings again after so long. But of the older students, there were only a handful.

Once they arrived in the Meal Hall, the Doctor saw why. The families who'd arrived to see their children were but a scarce few, and many of his fellow students were left milling about, searching for parents who were not coming. The older children already knew whether or not their families would be arriving. On Gallifrey, connections with families after beginning to study at the Academy were uncommon; only those who'd had close bonds with those families would remain together.

The Doctor wandered the room in search of Father. This room was crowded more with other young Time Lords like him, looking hopelessly for families who had abandoned them, rather than parents. The more time that passed with him not seeing his father, the faster his little hearts beat. As he searched, he caught sight of the Echo huddled in a corner, eyes red with unshed tears flickering back and forth.

Perhaps he had been searching for ten minutes, his hope sinking slowly into despair, when he saw him. Father, standing patiently in a far corner, looking very smart in new robes. The Doctor's face lit up. "_Father!_" he shouted, most unceremoniously. Wounded leg or not, he sprinted across the room, not caring that he ran with a limp that sent jolts of pain through his body.

The young Time Lord hugged his father tightly, and for a long while, he didn't let go. At last, Father took him gently by the shoulders and held him out at arm's length for inspection. "Well, if it isn't my little Doctor," he said fondly. Then, with a frown, "That _is _your title, is it not?"

The Doctor nodded. "Of course, Father."

Father frowned. "And what in the name of Rassilion have you done to yourself? Look at your lip! And your leg. It's bandaged."

"I've already seen my lip. Knew about the leg." The Doctor offered a perky grin.

"Has someone been beating you? Is it the same boy as before?" Father, incidentally, did not appreciate humor in times like these. His tone was sharp. Over the years, Father had clearly realized what was happening to his son and why he was coming home in battered states. The Doctor had never confirmed Father's suspicions, but it was clear that he knew anyway.

"No," the young boy lied.

"Well, what is it then?"

"It's nothing."

"This isn't 'nothing.'"

"Well, it is. Nothing, I mean. Sometimes it works like that," the Doctor shot back. "Stop worrying, Father, really. I'm fine, the Healers at the med bay said I'd be okay. Worrying is no fun. Never was!"

Father fell silent. He knew that whenever his son got like this **— **stubborn **— **there was no winning. It was fighting a losing battle. Instead, he gathered his little Doctor close, and the Doctor hugged him back.

They stayed that way for a while.


	6. Assigned Research and Lives Changed

**Dusty Old Books**

Author's Note: And thus marks the final installation of _Dusty Old Books_. I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. My next _Doctor Who_ story, _The Last Ones_, will be released soon, and it'll also be about the Ninth Doctor! **One important note**: I am aware of the canonical events of _Doctor Who_, having done some research on information of the classic series. However, to fit the events of this story, the positions of the Doctor and the Master have been reversed in a certain incident taking place in this chapter. Again, I am aware of the canonical events, but I am taking liberties in a way I see fit. Thank you for understanding.

WARNING: this chapter contains some scenes of violence. Reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: This may come as a bit of a surprise, and you may want to sit down for this, but I don't own _Doctor Who._

**::**

* * *

Chapter Six: Assigned Research and Lives Changed

* * *

By the end of the month, the Doctor's life was taking its usual course: Skipping class, reading about humans, watching the stars, reading about humans, avoiding Torvic, walking through the red fields, and reading about humans. He'd already finished two thick books and was halfway through his third. Many volumes repeated what he already knew, like how the human calendar on Earth was modeled after that of Gallifrey. The system worked the same way: twelve months a year, seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year, and so on. He didn't care. He could read the same facts a thousand times over and never tire of them. Besides, it was interesting to see what he already knew worded differently. The books in the library of his home had simpler wordings, the patterns in the intricate circles simplistic. These books had the most delicately penned details in the circles that made up the language of his people.

The Doctor also knew he couldn't keep letting Torvic get to him. Torvic had left him alone since the incident involving the potion and the beating, but sometimes the Doctor felt his bully's eyes on his back while he ate. Sometimes he caught Torvic glaring or — what was always so much worse — _smirking_ at him. Just smirking, with his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a wall. It sent a shiver down his spine, and the Doctor would turn before quickly shunning his gaze. Yes, he had to do _something_. But what? He'd tried playing a prank, and that had turned out miserably. He was too small to fight back if Torvic ever hurt him again. So instead, he kept his head low and comforted himself with daydreams and thoughts of the stars.

One of his books included a map of the Earth. He spent an entire day when he should have been in class shut up in his room, planning where he was going to go first. More than anything he wanted to visit the city called London, because it had been where his mother lived. He thought so, anyway. He knew he wanted to go in the nineteenth century as well. He wanted to _see_ her. Just see what she looked like. Perhaps he would buy her something. A drink, or a cake, perhaps. He didn't really know how that sort of thing worked on Earth. His books didn't tell him everything. He also had no Earth money, but the Doctor figured the TARDIS he was going to take would store Earth money _somewhere_. After all, those TARDISes were infinite on the inside, filled with rooms that contained things beyond anything his young mind, let alone that of a human, could ever possibly imagine.

He also discovered that day, that sometimes skipping an entire day of classes was not such a good idea. Because if he skipped a full day he _would_ be noticed. And he _would_ be in trouble. Borusa himself had stormed into the young Doctor's room, grabbed him by the elbow, and dragged him off. The Doctor had been lucky his Head Teacher had not noticed the stolen book which still lay open on his floor. He'd been struck with the strap twice on each hand, and to make the situation worse, he'd even gotten a lecture afterwards. Not about his skipping classes, but his schoolwork. The only mercy was that the lecture, at least, had been given in private.

"We ask of our students here at the Academy to put forward hard work, young Doctor. This is an experience that will shape the rest of your life, whether you chose to continue to reside on this planet or not. Students who only complete their first Chapter — or less than that — are never successful. They are not qualified to have TARDISes they might use for their own wants."

"Yes, I know," the Doctor said automatically. Saying the words he was expected to say without feeling them. He rubbed his hands, which still stung from the strap coming down on them.

"And your penmanship is _horrendous_," Borusa continued, ever the military sergeant giving sharp, clipped orders of admonishment. He placed something on the lectern and indicated the Doctor should take it. The Doctor did so, examining it. It was a paper he'd been asked to turn in a long time ago, something based off of some battle on Skaro, something that had happened well before he was born. The Doctor had written the paper the night before it was due. Borusa pointed to the Doctor's writing, the crooked, uneven circles, some not fully closed. " … you'll be expected to work on that, I'm considering bringing you in to write lines … "

Finally, he did what he always did. The Doctor tuned Borusa's words out, allowing his mind to slip away into the world of his own fantasies. Eventually, he caught the words, "Are you listening to me?" and he blinked, nodded. Borusa was still staring at him expectantly. He nodded again and smiled this time.

"Always," he said brightly. "I _am_ listening. Honest."

Borusa looked worn out. He knew his young pupil had not been paying attention to a word he said. Of course, they never did. He could have given the young Time Lord a scolding, but there was little point. Instead he repeated himself. "I was saying that next week an assignment was due to come out for all Time Lords in their first year here. Due to your inability to attend all your lessons, I am telling you of it now."

_Damn._ "Yes?" the Doctor asked, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. He hadn't been paying attention even in the classes he did attend.

"The assignment requires research to be done. _Extensive_ research. On an alien race of your choice. You will be expected to give a small speech based off your knowledge in front of the High Council three weeks from now, as well as build a small model of that alien species."

The Doctor's spirits lifted considerably and he stood up a little straighter. An opportunity began to form in his mind. "Could it be … ah, _any_ alien race? Any at all?"

"I did say 'of your choice'."

The eight-year-old Time Lord rocked back and forth on his heels. "So, if we wanted, it could be … something humanoid?"

"If you wish. For instance, there are the Silurians — "

The Doctor interjected, "Something even more humanoid. Say, humans?"

In his wingback chair, Borusa sat back and crossed his arms. "If you wish," he remarked. "Humans are an alien race. They're acceptable."

The Doctor grinned again. "All right. May I go please, Borusa? I should, ah, get to that assigned research."

**::**

He raced back up to his chambers with token manic energy, tripping over the hems of his robes on numerous occasions. Each time this happened he would clamber back to his feet and take off up the sweeping staircases again, a laugh emitting from his throat. His eyes were bright, his hair mussed, and he was delighted. Finally. He would be able to read all about humans and not be in trouble for it. He could take as many books as he wanted out of the library. He could show off his knowledge to the _High Council_. Everyone would be so very impressed with him and all that he knew. It would be fantastic. No longer the weakling, the pathetic little half-breed, but a young Time Lord just as worthy and knowledgeable as the next. To makes things even better, he didn't have to worry about having too little content in his speech. Even without the added research he was sure to take on, he already knew enough to write a brilliant informative speech. The only issue was that he did not know how in the name of Rassilion he was going to build a model human. While he could use his own body as a reference, he had no materials. No idea how to make a model once he did get his hands on such materials. But it was okay. He would figure something out.

He always did.

The Doctor ripped open the door to his room and picked up his book. The Master, who now sat on the bed staring emptily in a most unsettling fashion, had left it untouched. The Doctor tried to ignore the staring as he flipped through the book's pages. He curled up in a comfortable spot near the window, at an angle where he could see the River Lethe if he looked, and read with purpose.

As the days ticked by, he forced himself to attend each class. He forced himself to pay attention and be _good_. He hated following rules. Rules did not agree with him. Only his readings outside of lessons, in the wee hours, were his comfort. Mealtimes were never pleasant anymore, not with Torvic watching him. And even his dreams were painful, plagued with dark monsters he didn't know the names of. He only knew his fear of them. Sometimes Torvic was there too, and he would whisper things — _half-breed. Scum. Little human boy. _— before taking on the shape of one of those terrible monsters, too. The Doctor would wake up shaking violently in a sweat, the cries of pain dying in his mouth as his eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright.

Perhaps out of a childish instinct that still remained, he would pull aside the drapes that hung around his bed and glance over at the Master, who never drew his drapes. Usually, his friend would be asleep by now, but even in sleep he would murmur out words. _The drums_, he would mutter. _The drums_. Sometimes his fingers would find the wood of the bed frame and tap out that four-beat rhythm. And the Doctor would recoil before curling up by the window to read in the half-light and try to ignore the whispers coming from across the room. Other times, he would take the papers he was using for notes and draw the monsters of his dreams in the margins. Somehow, he felt that all of those monsters were Torvic, even the ones present before his bully manifested. Torvic was the only thing he feared, after all.

If he was still too disturbed by the nightmares, the Doctor would slip down the stairs, all seventeen storeys down, and step outside. His bare feet would be tickled by the grass, soothing him as he walked until he came to the River Lethe. He would dip his feet in the river's waters, not caring about how wet his robes got, and watch the stars. The stars never failed too console him when even his books proved unable to ease his tortured young mind.

Some things were just trustworthy in that sense.

**::**

Over the next several weeks, he worked hard at his reading, and thrilled in the fact he couldn't get in trouble for it. He could do whatever he wanted. It seemed every other young child at the Academy, on the other hand, was more excited about building a model of their alien. Somehow, many of his schoolmates had gotten their hands on metal, which resulted in countless Dalek an Cyberman models. Sontarans were popular as well, he observed. Nobody had chosen humans.

The Doctor began to work on his human model three nights before he was due to mount that stage and give his speech in front of the High Council. He'd reluctantly asked the Echo where he might find some metal, but she'd only scoffed. This meant his model was going to be made of cloth and the sticking potion he'd attempted to use against Torvic. Instead of reading and stargazing, the little Time Lord spent his nights laboring away at his raggedy little human model. He poured potion and cleaned it up when it spilt, tied knots, ripped at cloth, and when he was finally done the product was a limp, sorry-looking rag doll a bit larger than his own self. The Doctor managed to find a wooden rod when he asked one of his teachers very nicely, and this he used to hold the human doll upright.

Now, hours before he was meant to go onstage, the eight-year-old stood back to admire his work. The model's head drooped and its arms were outstretched in a way that made it seem like an abnormally large marionette. Even so, he couldn't help but feel extremely proud of his work. He carried it in his arms the way one might a child, cradling it almost lovingly as he and his fellow young Time Lords gathered in the corridors.

Most of them had their little model Daleks, Cybermen, Sontarans, Slitheens, et cetera on tiny rolling trolleys which they tugged behind them with a rope. The Doctor wondered how they'd gotten such impressive technology and felt out of place with his limp human doll in his arms. Aside from that, the doll's size made it awkward for the Doctor to move around, especially in his oversized robes.

He spotted Torvic, who boasted a gleaming model of a Cyberman on wheels, and quickly averted his gaze. That didn't stop the bully from catching his eye and grinning. The Doctor swallowed hard and shuffled his way through the gaggle of other children, all of whom were either very excited or very nervous.

_Great Rassilion. It's_ time, the Doctor thought.

One of the Head Teachers had arrived; he didn't know who they were. He did not introduce himself, simply reminded the squirming children before him how important this annual assessment was before leading them down all seventeen flights of stairs and to the same room wherein the naming ceremony had taken place. The grand hall remained fully unchanged save for the fact that instead of being filled with young Time Lords cramped together in rows of tight-packed chairs, the only occupants were the members of the High Council, each of whom had their own cushioned chair. The Lord President sat in a wingback chair in the center of the row. The children were led through the hall and into a side corridor the Doctor had not previously known existed. It lacked the beauty of the hall they'd just exited. This one was plain wood, and it was very small, clearly not made to house so many nervous young children and their life-size alien race models.

This time, they were called in some other obscure order. Perhaps they were drawing names from a bowl. But somehow, the Doctor found himself being called up at some point in the middle of the list. As soon as that Head Teacher poked his head through the door and announced, "Young Doctor?" his hearts began to pound. He gulped, and stepped into the hall, careful not to trip or drop his model.

He mounted the stage one trembling step at a time, trying hard and failing to ignore the way his knees shook. It occurred to him how mussed his hair was, but it was too late to attempt to flatten it now. For some reason, he found thinking of humans and sharing his knowledge relaxed him, excited him. By the time he'd taken his place on the apron of the stage and set down his model, he could breathe normally.

In front of him, the members of the High Council looked at him expectantly, like a jury staring down a criminal. Where he had felt a trembling little boy, they saw a tiny creature in oversized robes and messy, dust brown hair, eyes wide with what seemed to be excitement more than nervousness. The members of the High Council exchanged disapproving murmurs. Communications given merely by mutterings under the breath, a shake of the head, a tightly set jaw, a gentle sigh, for this was, of course, the half-breed.

His father had once been amongst their ranks, seen as an impressive young thing at only two hundred. But at two hundred, one can be naïve. He'd run off in a TARDIS, meant to do business with humans, and wound up marrying a Victorian human girl and leaving her with child. This little creature before them now was the result of the affair. It had taken a great deal of pleading on the part of the boy's father before the Lord President had agreed to admit him to the Academy once he was of age. Silently, it had been agreed the child would be a failure. His human genes weakened him, making him more vulnerable than any full Gallifreyan. The boy was a danger to himself; it was a miracle he had not yet gotten himself killed in some grandiose way. The High Council had access to records of the education at the Academy, as well as all the medical records of its med bay. Indeed, six reports had already been submitted of the young Doctor showing up at its doors, the first time with shrapnel embedded in his arm, the most recent with a stab wound to the leg and a broken rib. Broken bones of course, had been expected: his bone marrow was much weaker than that of a pure Time Lord, given his human half, altered DNA or not.

But when that same half-breed introduced himself and began to give his speech, his words came out in a rush and tumble, as if they were competing to get in front of each other. As he spoke, a twinkle lit those wide eyes, one that could be brought about only by extreme joy. There was a certain charm to his expression and excitement that only children can muster.

The Doctor, of course, had not exactly prepared a speech, but that was fine. Once he got going, there was no stopping him. He knew all he needed to know, and then some more. He could relax those tense shoulders now. Perhaps they were impressed by the little boy in front of them. As soon as he started speaking, his fear was lifted permanently. Besides, if there was one thing the Doctor had mastered, it was improvisation. He showed them the different parts of the human body via his rag doll of a model, something Borusa had explained later on was a vital part of this assessment. Mostly, he rambled on about what humans were like, what their planet was like, and he talked about their names for stars, about how they liked to have names for everything. He only stopped when the Lord President himself barked out, "Time!"

_You see, Doctor? That went well, didn't it?_ _You went overtime, but it's okay. _The Doctor smiled hopefully at the High Council. He thanked them, which he figured would aid his score, gathered up his human doll, and walked offstage. His steps were quickened by his exhilaration.

He didn't even make it up to the stairs.

Instead, he stepped on the hem of his robes and went crashing from stage to floor in a tangle of limbs and cloth.

**::**

He was relieved when at last he was given permission to leave. The Doctor took his model with him and stepped outside, intending to take a walk along the River Lethe, where he might find peace in that mental world of his, one far from the humiliation he'd just faced. The world where there were no bullies and he didn't have to do stupid assignments for school. He may have enjoyed himself with his reading in preparation but now, he thought, sulking, he realized how silly it was. He realized how pointless it was to build a _model_ of his alien race and present it in front of the _High Council_.

He was feeling sorry for himself. He knew it, and it was refreshing. He _liked_ feeling sorry for himself.

The Doctor kicked a small pebble into the river, where it rolled and fell into the water with a _splash_.Then he poked a large rock with his toe, which didn't budge. He stepped around the rock and decided to wade through the river. Abandoning his human model on the shore, he slipped into the river. The waters reached his waist here, and he was weighed down by the fabric of his robes. But no matter. Here it was cool, pleasant. Here he finally slipped away yet again into his dream world.

It has been said before that "nothing good ever lasts." Perhaps this is true; it always seems to be the case. And for the Doctor, at this moment, truer words had never been spoken.

It started out with a feeling of the collar of his robes suddenly being pulled tight around his neck, choking him. He lifted small hands to loosen his collar, assuming that it was only the effects of the water tugging at his robes. He thought nothing of it. The pulling grew stronger, until suddenly, he was being lifted up off his feet and thrown carelessly onto the shore. There he collapsed in a heap and tangle of limbs and loose, cold, wet cloth.

He raised his head. For some reason, seeing Torvic — the Victor — surprised him. He didn't know why he was so surprised. Who else could it be? Nobody wanted him to suffer as much as Torvic did, after all.

"Hello there," he said, trying for a casual smile. "Fancy seeing you here." He got to his feet and bolted.

It was like when he was smaller, in the days before the Academy. He was running, sprinting over hills and down scraggly paths. Tripping over his damp, heavy robes, his hearts pounding wildly, a grin that could only be described as oddly _manic_ and strangely _delighted_ spread across his small face.

And he was still small enough to know where to hide, a few spots having been long since memorized. Small from childhood and smaller still for his age.

The strange thing about adrenalin is how well it combines delight and fear, and that was how the Doctor felt right now. His robes were weighing him down and slowing him, but he was still much faster than Torvic. The run was shock-full of such adrenalin. The run was exhilarating. He was mentally mapping out a fine, snug little cave he knew of, which he could hide in once he reached the bottom of this hill. Before the Academy, the Doctor had only visited this cave a few times. The River Lethe had been a long trek from his home. But the few times he'd been, he'd kept it in mind.

The Doctor tripped.

And Torvic, lagging behind just slightly, took the opportunity.

He pounced.

His fist connected with the Doctor's jaw before the younger Time Lord could get to his feet.

The Doctor winced, and again Torvic struck, first drawing back like a cobra preparing to sink its teeth into its prey for another venomous bite. This time, Torvic kicked him in the stomach, hard, and the Doctor was left winded and sprawled on the ground.

Afterwards, it all happened in a rush. Torvic's fists, his feet, kicking and punching everywhere, and the pain was everywhere and it was too much and he couldn't get up it hurt too much it hurt everywhere and he prayed for it to stop and for the Victor to just go away and leave him alone and oh great Rassilion it hurt so much even though they were just punches and kicks but they were happening all at once everywhere and that's what hurt and he could only huddle and hate himself for letting himself be beaten up like this but there was nothing he could do right now and so he just kept on praying it would stop only it didn't and his vision narrowed down to grayness as unconsciousness began to descend and embrace him in her wings and it just hurt so much and he started to give in and the pain the hurt make it stop make it stop and there were hands wrapped round his throat and he couldn't breathe couldn't take it couldn't breathe couldn't breathe couldn't breathe —

There came a _crack_, then another immediately afterwards, and it stopped. The grip around his throat loosened, went slack.

The Doctor opened his eyes. He sat up slowly, gasping, gulping, taking in the sweet, sweet, precious, plentiful air his lungs suddenly had access to again.

The Master was there. Why, he didn't know. But his old friend was standing there, the large rock from before in his hand. The rock was stained in a deep shade of scarlet which glinted in the fading orange of the Gallifreyan sky. Torvic lay sprawled on the grass next to the Doctor, his eyes still open and his hands still curled slightly from being wrapped so firmly round the Doctor's throat. His head was all wrong, seemingly indented and also stained in that ominous shade of red.

In the confusion of it all, the Doctor couldn't quite register what happened. His mind screamed it out, and the tiniest sense of logic extinguished the flames of something too horrible to accept. Or perhaps it was the other way around. So he turned to Koschei and asked just that: "What happened?"

The Master said nothing, just held out the rock in proof. He set it down on the ground, near the Doctor's feet. He inclined his head in Torvic's direction.

"It can't be," the Doctor said quietly, the full horror and realization of it dawning on him now, with such force that even that little bit of logic inside him could not deny it. He did not thank his former friend. How could he? "No … it _can't_ be. You can't have … " He lowered his voice. "He can't be dead. Why didn't he regenerate?"

This time, the Master answered him. "There were two cracks, Theta. I did it again, quickly, before he had the chance to. If I hadn't hit him twice, then it wouldn't have happened that way, I guess. I guess he would've done."

Silently, the Doctor reached over. He listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. Not from either heart. He felt for a pulse — _nothing_. And that chest was still, no signs of breathing. Gingerly, he fingered the blood on Torvic's skull. When he drew his hands away, the sight of the blood frightened him enough to quickly wipe his hands clean on the grass. He recoiled.

At last, he spoke up. "And the body? What do we do with it, Koschei?"

"Burn it," the Master answered, as though it were obvious.

They did so, pulling the branches and leaves from nearby trees for a makeshift bonfire. Koschei was strong enough to drag Torvic's body on top of the wood, once they'd organized it in a pile. And he knew how to rub the blades of grass together in a way that set the wood on fire instantly.

It was there under the stars that the Doctor and the Master stared dully into the flames as Torvic, no longer the Victor, burned until his body was nothing more than ash. His robes caught on fire easily, making the process mercifully quicker.

"How did you find me? How did you know that I was in trouble?" the Doctor turned away from the fire momentarily to ask his old friend, but the Master remained silent. He only stared emptily into the flames, and at last, the Doctor turned and went on staring too. He did not ask again.

Later, when they walked away, wiping their hands clean of blood of their longtime tormentor, it was the last time they would walk together as friends. In some unspoken agreement to trust each other, somehow, for some reason. It was the first time the Master would take a life, and the first time the Doctor's would be saved. Their lives had been altered and changed in a way that they could never be the same again.

But for now, they walked back to the Academy together, temporarily bound by their own suffering, by all that had been lost.

**~The End ~**


End file.
